


Right Person Wrong Time

by Ferrero13



Series: Time Waits for No One [2]
Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fix-It, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pining, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2017-09-30
Packaged: 2018-04-14 20:01:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4578033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ferrero13/pseuds/Ferrero13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Decades ago, Harry Hart fell in love with a man whose wrist didn't have Harry's first words to him. He did not expect to find the same man at Holborn Police Station looking like he hasn't aged a day.</p><p>Sometimes, the first words you say to your soulmate aren’t the first they hear from you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Companion fic to 'A Different Place and Time' from Harry's perspective. This will expand on certain scenes that were just touch-and-go, and only a few key moments will be rewritten in detail here so that nobody who's read the other fic will get bored with this one. I will hopefully be able to write this fic so that anybody who hasn't read the other fic will still find this completely coherent. I don't think this fic will be updated as regularly as 'A Different Time and Place', but I'm optimistic about being able to come up with a workable schedule.

Harry Hart’s words are very unique. They condensed into a messy handwriting when he was almost 22, which is far older than most people and falls well outside the wide age range for the onset of mark presentation. As a child, he was used to convincing other people—and, more importantly, himself—that he didn’t need a soulmate to be whole. The adults pitied him and the children eyed him warily because he was an  _aberration_. He quite simply wasn't normal.

His parents, social elites with a long history of inbreeding in order to keep the wealth and properties within a few tightly knit families, are prime examples of how soulmate marks are nothing more than a suggestion. They had been engaged since they were teenagers. Their respective soulmates were deemed “unacceptable” by their families because of certain well-entrenched classist ideologies, which was no hardship in the end as neither of them were particularly taken with their soulmates.

Mother complained that Clara’s Scottish accent was hair-raisingly grating. Father confessed that Janet didn’t like the idea that he came from money. Harry thought they were being purposefully harsh for the sake of justifying their union, but he’d met both of their soulmates at some point—mother and father were sentimental enough to keep in touch with them and meet up occasionally—and could vouch himself that there were no lingering regrets for all parties involved.

Despite all this, Harry still felt bereft whenever he saw the ugly dark blue mess of lines on his wrist that had yet to—or may never ever—form into discernible letters and words. For a long time after, he avoided looking at his wrist, only allowing himself a single, always disappointing, peek every time his birthday rolled around.

After some time, he bought a watch to avoid unwanted attention, and his life fell into place easily after that. No more hands on his shoulders asking him if he was all right, no more whispers behind his back, no more staring at his wrist and feeling like a colossal joke with no punchline.

It got easier to deal with. In time, he learnt to embrace his eccentricities and accept that the socially defined abomination of existing without a proper soulmate mark was nothing more than a failing of society itself. It wasn't his fault, and he would neither blame nor berate himself over this more than he should (which is not at all).

He was fresh out of university when a man in a suit stopped him on a street and asked, completely out of the blue, if he wanted to be a Kingsman. Harry, who prided himself on being a very rational person, sidestepped the man and continued on his way. The man caught up to him easily, introduced himself as Chester King, fed Harry some highly suspicious lines about a secret spy organisation, and Harry, who had thus far been on the straight and narrow (except, of course, he hadn’t exactly been straight in all senses of the word, but that’s nobody’s business), thought, ‘ _Fuck it_ ,’ and took a gamble for the first time in his life.

(He gambles a lot more after that, so this was nothing in comparison.)

Later that day, in the bed assigned to him at Kingsman’s HQ, Harry felt a prickle under his wrist, like little threads were rearranging themselves under his skin. When he took the Kingsman issue black band off, his breath caught so suddenly that the recruit in the next bed asked if he was okay, and he knew that there would be no sleep for him that night.

_‘Incoming at your five o’ clock!’_

It turned out that sitting dazedly in bed was a brilliant idea when water started rising from the ground and Harry, after trying the door, managed to break the one-way mirror at the end of the room with his shoulder before the water could rise high enough to clog up his lungs.

As they each waded their way to the gaping window where the mirror once was, Chester King eyed them all beadily and gave Harry a look that was part frustrated and part impressed. He told them all to dry off and get back to bed without giving any explanation for what happened.

Alexander Grisham died the next day when black smoke filled their new bunker and there were no one-way mirrors to break.

Chester King, slamming the door open in a manner he probably thought was intimidating, growled at them for failing to notice Grisham’s choking pleas for help, and announced that they’d all failed this test. Harry took a deep breath from the loo snorkel and wondered if this was supposed to replace yesterday’s drowning experiment.

He glanced at his covered wrist. Given his words, he had a very strong suspicion that he would pass the selection process.

\---

Harry becomes the new Galahad, to absolutely nobody’s surprise.

\---

It hasn’t been more than a month but Harry already loves his job. His parents, being the sort that wash their hands of their children once they’re adults, don’t care for what he does and are just pleased that he’s landed himself a job so soon.

There is a cross-cultural exchange that Chester King informs him he absolutely needs to attend for tradition-related reasons. As much as Harry wants to passive-aggressively inform his mentor that Kingsman’s snobby traditions can go fuck themselves (in not as many words of course, and not quite so  _ungentlemanly_ , because his parents taught him better than that) he likes the idea of seeing more of Kingsman than just the U.K. HQ, so he shuts up, accepts, and is assigned to the South-East Asian HQ.

Like any spy worth his salt (and generous paycheque), Harry researches everything about the country where the S.E.A. HQ has been established. Singapore looks economically impressive and remarkably well connected for a young nation, but the weather sounds like an absolute nightmare for any Londoner.

When Harry gets there it is hot and dry, which No. 7, the local agent saddled with duty as his guide, informs him is unusual because it is more often hot and wet. No. 7 also cheerfully enlightens him about the flooding that occasionally happens downtown, listing isolated incidents where whole trees were uprooted during the monsoon season, and then proceeds to assure Harry that he is in no danger of being crushed by falling angsanas today because ‘it’s such a lovely day don’t you want to visit the beach where you can get crushed by palm trees instead?’

Harry looks down at his suit, which is starting to feel heavy and warm, and asks if he may change into something more breathable first.

No. 7 frowns and says, “If you insist,” like Harry is weak for not being able to withstand the heat in two layers of clothing including one necessarily thick bullet-proof, Kevlar-knit suit jacket.

\---

After a full day of non-stop sight-seeing, Harry is immediately thrust into missions. He first accompanies No. 7 for a day for a crash course in the country’s local quirks and conditions and how best to deal with them, and then he’s all on his own.

The S.E.A. HQ is nothing if not brutally efficient. Harry doesn’t quite know yet if he likes it.

It is his first mission alone in Singapore. He’s supposed to be tracking down two potential arms dealers but instead ends up being chased by five amateur gun enthusiasts through the heartland, doing his best to steer them away from civilians. While a showdown on a rooftop isn’t exactly his idea of what constitutes a successful ‘stealth mission’, his main objective (to confirm or disprove the intel) has been achieved and he can’t wait to get this mission over and done with.

This would be very easy if he was actually prepared for combat and didn’t only have some basic equipment with him. He doesn’t have any guns because he’s trying to be respectful of local laws and doesn’t think blowing a hole through the roof of a high-rise flat would reflect very well on his ability to complete a ‘stealth mission’ either, so he’s left with hand-to-hand.

It’s something he knows that he’s good at, but this is the first time his opponents are unfairly wielding arms. He knows when he’s out of his depth, and he is definitely out of his depth now. He’s going to have bruises tomorrow from the few bullets that have not missed their mark due to atrocious aim.

His saving grace comes in the form of a man who appears out of nowhere and yells, “Incoming at your five o’ clock!”

Harry’s heart stutters but he is trained well enough that he manages to follow the information through with an elbow to his attacker’s face. Something gives way with a satisfying crunch of bone. Taking advantage of his assailants’ brief moment of distraction, Harry electrocutes one and dislocates another’s arm and the man— _his soulmate_ —finishes the last couple with an  _umbrella_  of all things.

He doesn’t know the man—even spent the better part of 20 years convincing himself that he didn’t exist—but he’s already a little bit in love with him.

The man comes over as Harry’s digging his knee into the spine of the attacker with the dislocated arm. His heart is pounding but it’s not all from exertion.

When two Oxfords finally stop in Harry’s line of sight Harry says, “Thank you.”

‘ _What the fuck was that, Hart? “Thank you”? Really?_ ’ Harry thinks, frustrated. Those are about the worst first words anybody could say to their soulmate. The poor guy must have been so annoyed with such a generic mark, especially given how unusual Harry’s own is. He cringes, expecting the man to ask to clarify their marks because Harry is a fool who is unable so say something more distinctive to identify himself by.

“You’re welcome,” his soulmate says flippantly, and Harry’s heart sinks. “You know, the authorities aren’t going to be pleased with this mess; you should probably move these guys somewhere or at least take their firearms with you if you’re going to leave them here.”

Why? Why isn’t the man reacting as expected?

What if his soulmate has given up on finding him because Harry’s useless at saying memorable first words and is happily married with a white picket fence and two and a half children? The country suddenly seems so cold even though it was sweltering just seconds ago.

“Yes, you’re quite right,” Harry says calmly despite the rush of blood in his ears. “Would you be so kind as to lend me a hand before we carry on with the rest of our day as if none of this ever happened?”


	2. Chapter 2

His name is (probably) Gary, he is English, he is very likely a Kingsman, and his soulmate isn’t Harry.

As terrible as it is, Harry feels a spark of hope when Gary confides in him—oh so matter-of-factly that Harry has a feeling that Gary’s been living for a while now with the knowledge—that his soulmate mark is also unidirectional. They give a sombre toast to each other, commiserating about miserable soulmate mark assignments, and decide that the beach would be a good way to cure their case of lonely hearts.

(The name ‘Gary’ doesn’t sit right on Harry’s tongue. When they introduced themselves, Harry gave his first name and Gary uttered an odd, halting, “Eggary,” before clarifying his name as, “Gary.” Harry suspects that ‘Gary’ isn’t what he often goes by, but it doesn’t seem like a hasty alias either since he responds to the name far too readily for that. He eventually decides that Gary must prefer to be addressed by some sort of—likely very unique—nickname, but has given Harry his rarely used legal name in an ironic attempt to retain some level of anonymity. Harry wants to know the name that Gary prefers, wants to call him by that name, but he doesn’t want to ask for more than Gary is willing to give.)

\---

Gary is a beautiful, beautiful man. Harry just wants to grab Gary’s wrist and scribble ‘Thank you’ over Gary’s existing mark. Gary’s laughter is loud and clear and strong, a bright burst of happiness that puts the glare of the sun off rippling seawater to shame. Harry falls a little bit more in love with this man who is laughing on the sand at Harry’s reaction to being insulted about his choice of footwear. (There is nothing ungentlemanly about Brogues, though, is there? Gary’s definitely just pulling his leg. Definitely. Brogues are practical and therefore respectable. Gary’s good friend is just uptight.)

Harry lies down next to Gary. Laughter is good and all, but his heart is still bleeding and he needs a bandage for that. “Sometimes I wonder why one-sided soulmate marks even exist,” he says, taking the conversation to less light-hearted topics. “What’s the point of assigning people like us somebody who’s obviously not meant for us? We would be better off without these marks.” Harry looks at Gary squarely in the eye. “It’s been a while for you, hasn’t it? Will it hurt forever?” It feels like it would hurt forever.

Gary sighs. “It’s all a matter of perspective. It’s enough if he’s happy, but feeling happy for somebody and being happy yourself can be mutually exclusive. It still hurts to be reminded that he’s never going to be mine, but y’know what, if I really love him, then all I ever really want is his happiness. Whether he finds that with me or not is secondary. So really, as long as he’s happy I’m at the very least contented.

“But then I go and find out that the bastard’s not even with his bloody soulmate and isn’t that just the biggest fuck you from the universe. The universe should’ve paired us up together since our respective soulmates don’t want us.” Gary smiles sadly at Harry, who finds himself returning it because Gary has put into words what Harry feels except Gary’s been dealing with this for much longer than Harry has and Harry can’t imagine how horrible that must feel.

Who in their right mind would give this man up for anybody else?

“Yes, it should have,” Harry agrees quietly.

Suddenly, Gary is pulling Harry up by his hand and saying excitedly, “Come on. Fuck soulmate marks. We’re here and we obviously like each other, so let’s do the whole courtship thing good and proper like in those soap operas where the fucking marks don’t exist and people get to choose who they like best. So I choose you, yeah? We’ll write our own happy ending.”

Well, fuck, that’s the most romantic thing anybody’s ever said to Harry.

Harry would probably blush like a schoolgirl if his face wasn’t already pinked from being under the sun for so long.

“Are you sure about this? There’s a reason why those things only happen in dramas.” He doesn’t want to hope. He doesn’t want Gary to make him want things only to take them from him if he can’t carry through with this. It will break Harry more to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all because then he would be left longing for what was never his to begin with. Gary still loves his soulmate, after all. Harry can’t have all of him.

Gary grins at him, and Harry throws caution to the wind.

Against his better judgement, Harry gambles again. This time, the playing chips are the pieces of his heart.

\---

When Harry gets back to S.E.A. HQ, No. 7 waggles his eyebrows at him as if he can read from the wrinkles in his tie that Harry has just been on a sort-of date. Harry, somewhat rudely, gives him a two-fingered salute, but, from his still pleased expression, No. 7 doesn’t appear to recognise the gesture as an insult. Harry briefly considers curling his index finger in a much more internationally recognisable gesture.

His mission schedule is relatively sparse as time has been set aside for him to wander around the island country on his own like a lost tourist. This would give him more than enough time to spend with Gary, who, from their conversations that flirted around their jobs without ever touching on the subject, seems like a Kingsman agent with too much time on his hands. He knows that he is the only British field operative that’s been roped into the cross-cultural exchange, so could it be that Gary is here on a mission? Or, given that Harry has never seen Gary at U.K. HQ, perhaps he’s been permanently transferred to S.E.A. HQ before the selection process for Galahad’s position even started?

Gary has been working the field far longer than Harry. If he doesn’t say anything, whatever he’s doing is probably classified and Harry shouldn’t ask. The same way Harry shouldn’t ask about Gary’s soulmate either.

Before going to bed, Harry rubs the dark blue words on his wrist with a dry thumb, and falls asleep desperately trying not to feel like a poor substitute for Gary’s soulmate.

(It doesn’t work. His dreams—nightmares, really—are filled with Gary accusing him of deception, filled with angry, spiteful words that seethe of betrayal and hurt. Because, in the end, why should Harry be allowed to spend any time at all with his soulmate when Gary never got that chance with his?)

\---

The pinstripe suit that Harry first saw Gary in doesn’t make an appearance the next time they meet. Harry feels overdressed in his suit, but Gary, outfitted in a white shirt that stretches obscenely across his shoulders and jeans that don’t leave much to the imagination, assures him that he looks just fine.

“More than fine even,” Gary adds, eyeing him up and down appreciatively.

Harry is not a fourteen year old with a crush, so he absolutely _does not_ blush when Gary winks at him. He is simply overheated. This is the tropics. It is normal to feel warm. It is therefore also perfectly normal for a Londoner to feel very, very hot here.

\---

Gary shakes his umbrella dry once they step under the shelter of a library with a naked red brick exterior, and Harry is torn between wanting to follow the siren call of books and staying to admire the flex of Gary’s arms. They’ve known each other for a week now, and Harry’s just learnt that Gary is here for a cross-cultural exchange as well. He reminds himself that they’re spies and that further prying may result in Harry stumbling into something that he’s not cleared for.

Harry is surprisingly unbothered despite not knowing details about Gary that anybody who isn’t a spy would have shared on a first date. It comes with the job.

It doesn’t mean Harry doesn’t want to know, though.

However, as they’re at a library, silence is golden, and the things that go unsaid between them feel like just another ordinary thing that shouldn’t be said here.

\---

Gary calls him out one night to a park. When Harry arrives, he easily finds Gary lounging on a bench with what Harry easily identifies as a cake box in his hands. Directly above is a lamp which yellow glow brings out the shine of Gary’s hair.

“You wanted to see me?” Harry says as he nears.

“I always want to see you,” Gary grins, and pats the seat next to him. Harry spares a brief moment to thank Gary’s bastard of a soulmate whose rejection of this wonderful man is what allows Harry to bask in Gary’s smiles today. Then he experiences a sting of guilt for taking pleasure in Gary’s pain but manages to quickly suppress it. He won’t let anything ruin this for him, not when Gary looks so pleased to see him too.

“Flatterer,” Harry laughs. He sits down and leans slightly into Gary’s side. Gary slides an arm around his shoulder. It’s a bit awkward since Harry is taller, but he appreciates the gesture nonetheless.

“It’s the truth, I swear.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Yes, of course. Well, what did you want me for?”

“Many things,” Gary beams. “However, if you’re worried, I promise that I harbour no intentions towards your person.”

“None at all? I can think of one or two _intentions_ I’d like you to have.” Harry presses a little closer to Gary.

Gary huffs a laugh. “You’re making this unnecessarily difficult.”

“What exactly am I making unnecessarily difficult, Gary?”

“I got us a cake.”

“A cake,” Harry repeats slowly, not quite sure where this is going. “You called me out at night because you got a cake.”

“When you put it like that it sounds stupid.”

"That's not news.” Harry pauses here to enjoy the outrage on Gary’s face. “What’s the cake for?”

Gary scratches the back of his neck sheepishly. “A few hours earlier I thought that two weeks would be a good milestone to celebrate. Now I see that I’m probably overreacting.”

Harry can’t believe he can fall any harder for this man than he already has. Gary’s excited for their _two-week_ anniversary. It is ridiculous how disproportionately happy this makes him. All this time he’s been waiting for Gary to break up over one thing or another and yet here the man is, wanting to celebrate _two weeks_. Harry could explode from all the stupid, fluffy things he’s feeling.

“You said you’d be busy today,” Gary continues, apparently working himself up to an uncontrollable ramble. “So I had to get you out at night. And anyway I have candles that will look nicer in the dark. Like I’m adding stars to an already beautiful night sky. But you’re the most beautiful thing here, of course. And anywhere, even. I mean, look at you. You’re gorgeous and I’m so glad you agreed to—”

“Gary,” Harry interrupts.

“—yes?”

“Shut up and put the damn candles on the cake already.”

Gary stares at him, and a smile splits across his lips. “Yeah. Right. Okay. I hope you like pandan. I mean, I got the cake because it's green and it's different and I thought maybe you'd like it. It would be terrible if you didn’t because the lady told me that—”

“Gary.”

“Shutting up now.”

Gary gingerly removes a small, rectangular cake with an unusual matte green paste for the top layer—and yet more green paste between two layers of sponge—from the box and neatly arranges two candles with mismatched colours in the centre. His hands stop just as they’re pulling away from the unlit candles.

“Fuck,” he says.

“You forgot the lighter, didn’t you,” Harry guesses.

“Sorry.”

“Figures,” Harry chuckles. “Lucky for you, I have one.”

“It’s not a hand grenade, is it?” Gary asks out of the blue.

“What makes you think that?” Harry arches an eyebrow. Honestly, hand grenade lighters? Does Gary think that they’re in a bad spy movie?

“Nothing. Just. Why do you have a lighter? Do you smoke?”

“I have been known, on occasion, to enjoy setting things on fire,” Harry hums as he lights the candles, cupping his hand around the tiny flames to stop them from going out before they could grow any bigger.

“No surprises there,” Gary snorts. God help him. Harry’s even finding Gary’s uncouth mannerisms _endearing_.

“I suppose not.” He pockets the lighter. “What now?”

“Now,” Gary announces with more pomp and circumstance than is generally reserved for two-week anniversaries, “you make a wish.”

“What about you?”

“Hm? Oh, I’ve already made mine,” Gary assures him, pressing a chaste kiss to his jaw.

Harry stares at the flames as they flicker a little but prove otherwise resilient to the night breeze. It would be so easy to make a wish for himself, a wish that will keep Gary with him, but what Gary said on the beach comes to mind: _“…if I really love him, then all I ever really want is his happiness.”_

It’s a cliché worthy of the sappiest romance films in the long, illustrious history of sappy romance films, but Harry chooses to wish for Gary’s happiness anyway.

“And now we blow out the candles?” Harry asks when he’s done.

“And now we blow out the candles,” Gary confirms, smiling.

The flames go out, like two bright stars winking out of existence, and all that is left is the warm wisps of smoke between them, a gentle reminder of what they have. Gary’s eyes are smiling when Harry looks at him, and their first kiss tastes like a slow, smouldering burn of night air and dark smoke.

(Gary ruins the moment by forgetting the forks too.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really do hope they haven't been too out of character. :/
> 
> I've been toying with the idea of writing a story about Merlin digging through digital records of other people. The idea is that it will be interactive. In fact, it will be so interactive that you have to do the digging yourself (i.e. you will play as Merlin). I thought I might write a programme for you guys to download and pretend you're investigating digital archives, so every chapter would be another day/week/month worth of digital records to read through, but you'd have to unlock it with clues in the previous chapter. (Maybe there will be other unlockable stuff in each chapter, but I haven't thought that far. The plot is also still up in the air, but I'm thinking that Merlin will probably use his sneaky tech skills to play matchmaker for Hartwin.) However, my knowledge of programming is very limited, so if I ever write the programme it will be in C and will probably have to be compiled and executed using your OS' version of a command prompt/terminal since the only UI I can write is one that is used to play brick breaker games. If this sounds promising, drop me a comment? I would really like to try this, but it will be very time consuming and will require a lot of research on UI (though if anybody would like to lend their UI expertise you are very much welcome to do so). If there is little interest in this, I will file it away as a personal project.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a long time since I last updated, so this chapter's a bit longer than usual.
> 
> Disclaimer: I am not a martini connoisseur. Everything I know about martinis I gleaned from here: [[x](http://www.rdwarf.com/users/mink/martinifaq.html)] I also tried to find that tumblr post that inspired the second half of this chapter, but I can't seem to find it. I will update with a link if I do.

While the outdoors is a veritable furnace, the air conditioning settings in most buildings could probably freeze hell over. The inside of the shopping centre feels like a reprieve from the heat, and the only bit of warmth that Harry is (gladly) subjecting himself to is Gary’s hand in his and his body beside him.

They are walking past a watch shop when Gary slows barely noticeably. Harry follows Gary’s gaze to a simple watch with a large, round face and warm brown straps in a window display. Smiling to himself, Harry says, “Got your eye on something?”

Gary looks into Harry’s eyes. “I do now,” he smirks.

Harry rolls his eyes, tugging Gary into the watch shop and immediately locating a shop assistant. “You’re such a sap.”

“What are we doing in here?” Gary enquires curiously.

Harry ignores Gary in favour of speaking with the shop assistant, “Could I have a look at the watch in the window?”

“Please wait here, sirs,” the shop assistant says with a generic, bland smile.

“You’re getting yourself a new watch? What’s wrong with yours?” Gary asks.

“I’m getting _you_ a new watch.”

“What? Why? I don’t need a new watch,” Gary says, bewildered.

“You were looking at it,” Harry explains, shrugging. “And I wanted to get you something.”

“But this is going to cost you a fortune!”

Harry brushes off Gary’s concerns, “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re worth it. You also once threatened to spend all of my money on food. I’m just making a better, more long-term investment. Besides, what else would I be spending my money on otherwise?”

“Would you like to try it on, sir?” the shop assistant tries to interrupt politely after returning from the display cabinet.

“Well, Gary? Are you going to let me get it for you?”

“Only if you’d let me return the favour. It’s what people do on dates, don’t they? Buy each other stuff?”

“I might be tempted. Go on, or else my answer will be no.”

Gary takes the watch from the shop assistant with a charming note of thanks, strapping it on with practised ease after removing his own watch while carefully keeping his mark out of sight (for which Harry is grateful—he doesn’t think he can bear to see somebody else’s words on his soulmate). He stretches his arm, eyeing the watch on his wrist at arm’s length. Then, he turns to the shop assistant, “Do you have another piece?”

“Yes, of course. Should you choose to go through with the purchase we will obtain a new piece for you.”

“We’ll take two,” Gary tells the shop assistant.

Harry raises an eyebrow. “I haven’t tried it.”

“It’s so cute how you assume the other one’s for you,” Gary grins.

Harry raises the other eyebrow, feeling very unimpressed. “Yes, because you’re obviously tactless enough to buy another person an expensive watch while I’m here with you.”

Gary shrugs. “You never know. And anyway you don’t need to try it. You’ll look great with anything.”

“That’s somewhat beside the point.”

“You can try this if you insist.” He expertly unbuckles Harry’s watch from his wrist, deliberately holding Harry’s wrist so that his words face down and away from everybody (for which Harry is also grateful—what would Gary think if he knew that he was Harry’s soulmate even though Harry’s not his?). He’s so quick that Harry barely feels his touch or the watch slipping away from his skin. Tucking Harry’s watch into his breast pocket (and ruining the line his suit, the wanker), Gary takes the display watch from his own wrist and secures it around Harry’s. “There.”

“Were you a pickpocket in another life?” Harry asks as he admires the watch. “You’re far too good at this.”

“Not in another life, no,” Gary says cryptically. Harry can guess what he means—Gary doesn't always move like he expects the sharp snap of his shoes when he walks, or the glare of his heavy signet ring when the sun hits just right. “How’s the watch? Do you like it?”

“I’d love anything you get me, to be honest.”

“Just admit that I’ve got a good eye for what looks good on you,” Gary grins.

“You badly need a lesson in humility,” Harry mutters, but doesn’t disagree. To the shop assistant, he says, “We will take two.”

“We have a complimentary engraving service for every purchase, if it might interest you,” the shop assistant offers.

“No, that’s fine. We’ll—” Gary starts.

Harry cuts him off. “That sounds lovely. ‘Gary’ on the one, and ‘Harry’ on the other, please.” This will be good enough, Harry tells himself. He doesn’t have any claim over the words on Gary’s wrist but if he can etch his name in the watch above them he will not ask for more.

Gary stares at him.

Harry shrugs, trying to affect nonchalance despite a growing uncertainty. “It’s what couples do, don’t they? Get matching accessories?”

The grin that spreads across Gary’s face is embarrassingly gratifying.

\---

Outside the store, they replace each other’s Kingsman watches—if Harry needed anymore confirmation of Gary’s involvement with Kingsman the particular make of his watch would be it—with the ones engraved with each other’s name. Gary makes him promise to keep the watch with him forever, and, despite himself, Harry’s heart takes this as a ringing endorsement of whatever this thing he has going on with Gary is.

Despite himself, Harry’s starting to believe that he can have this, have _him_.

\---

Just a couple of days later Gary’s manages to get them both drunk after bribing the bartender to let them mix their own drinks in a hidden nook behind the counter. They are already more than slightly tipsy when Gary gets it into his head that he ought to teach Harry how to make a 'proper Martin'.

“Ever watched any of the Bond films?” Gary asks, slurring slightly.

“All of them, actually,” Harry admits. “I’m always hoping that the next will be more realistic than the last, but I have yet to be pleasantly surprised. The villains are always more interesting anyway.”

“I hope you don’t take any sorts of lessons from him. Too flashy. It’s a miracle he hasn’t been killed or exposed yet.” Gary hums, plucking a bottle of gin from the shelves, then skims his fingers over the selection again before grasping a bottle of sweet vermouth as well. “And his Martini’s utter shit.”

“Why’s that?” Oh, Gary is positively sparkling, and is that a _halo_ above the golden shine of his hair?

“Have you ever had a Martini?”

“I prefer beer,” Harry says, and loops both arms around Gary’s waist to press his chest against Gary’s back.

Gary picks a glass, stares at it for a bit, then nods with satisfaction and stands it on the counter. “This is a martini glass. It differs from a cocktail glass right here. You see the bottom? A martini glass is conical, but a normal cocktail glass usually has a flat bottom.” Gary picks another glass from the shelf. “The martini glass also has a larger, wider bowl, as you can see. Don’t make an amateur mistake by mixing them up.”

Harry feels slightly off-kilter when Gary pushes the cocktail glass into his hand but doesn’t tell him what to do with it, so he gingerly replaces it on the shelf before the alcohol content in his blood can get the better of him and cause him to drop it.

“Always go with gin—it’s much more aromatic. Vodka’s just boring,” Gary tells him, popping open the gin and sniffing it. “You smell it too.” He pushes it in under Harry’s nose, and a strong whiff makes Harry feel more lightheaded than he already is.

“Right,” Harry murmurs, blinking hazily, glad that the fate of the cocktail glass is no longer literally in his hands. He would hate to have to replace that.

“You know how Bond always asks for his Martini ‘shaken, not stirred’? Don’t do that. It’ll turn the thing cloudy. Looks absolutely hideous if your mix is made of transparent liquids; you can’t serve that unless you’re making it for a fan of Bond who’s asked for it that way.” As he speaks, Gary manages to scrounge up a tall glass pitcher and a long, thin spoon from somewhere while Harry wasn’t looking. “This is a martini pitcher for stirring,” Gary tells him, setting the pitcher on the counter and tipping a generous volume of gin into it.

Harry blinks, and suddenly there’s also ice in the pitcher.

“You’ve got to stir it like you’re caressing the mix for an excellent texture. By the way, a shaken Martini’s properly called a Bradford, so Bond’s just being ignorant when he asks for his Martini shaken,” Gary continues.

“Let me guess. Shaking introduces air bubbles?” Harry mumbles, eyes crossing as they watch Gary deftly stir the gin in the glass. He drops his chin onto Gary’s shoulder because it’s getting a bit hard to stay upright. (Why does he need to remain standing, though? The floor looks like a very inviting and logical choice of resting surface.)

“Among other things. It bruises the gin too, assuming, of course, you’re using gin, not Vodka. Makes it bitter—not that _I_ can ever tell, but apparently some people can. If you’re using oily Vodka you might prefer to shake it to disperse the oil like Bond does, but that still doesn’t make it a Martini. Anyway, shaking also waters it down by introducing little bits of ice, so you’re ordering a weak drink if you do.”

“Do _you_ drink a lot of Martini?”

“Not at all. I just had a good teacher.”

“Is this the same one that made you wear Oxfords?” Harry slurs, feeling slightly jealous of this mysterious person who seems to have so much influence over Gary. Is this person Gary’s soulmate? God, now he’s even more jealous. What right has that person to have their fingerprints all over how Gary lives his life and then just leave this wonderful man for somebody else? What a tosser of a soulmate. Gary’s lucky he’s not stuck with them. Harry’s a much better choice anyway. He won’t ever take Gary for granted.

“Yes, but that’s not the point,” Gary brushes off, and something in Harry uncoils. “Now, if you’re drinking for health benefits, you might prefer it shaken because there’re more antioxidants that way. But you’re young enough, so I don’t think you should care too much. Go for taste.”

“I have a figure to maintain.”

“You look and feel good as is,” Gary assures him, patting the hand that Harry has on his stomach.

“Stop being so charming. I’m a sure thing, you know,” Harry mutters breathily, tongue loosened by alcohol, enjoying the comforting weight of Gary’s hand on his.

Gary stills, then melts right into Harry, “Really?”

“Mm,” Harry hums. “If you want it. Want this. Want me.”

“Okay,” Gary whispers quietly. Then, less softly but no less intimately, he says, “And while you’re stirring, glance at an unopened bottle of vermouth.”

“Aren’t you supposed to _add_ the vermouth to it? Without vermouth it’s just gin, isn’t it,” Harry mutters into Gary’s shoulder.

“You can add it if that’s how you like it. This is less a matter of texture, tastes, or aesthetics than one of experience for me. Churchill started this trend.”

“Winston Churchill? Prime Minister?”

“That’s what I was told. Vermouth from France was hard to come by during World War II, so he had to make do by bowing across the Channel in the direction of France. I think of it as a metaphor for wanting but not being able to have.” As Gary says this, he tilts his head and gazes into Harry’s eyes in a way that makes Harry’s already red cheeks burn even brighter.

Harry’s mind is too fuzzy to make any sense of it, but it’s a good feeling, he decides, and he squeezes Gary closer to him.

“You’ve distracted me,” Gary suddenly says, sounding dismayed. “I’ve stirred it for far too long. I haven’t made such a mistake since my first Martini.”

“How long were you supposed to stir it for?”

“Approximately 27 seconds.”

“That’s specific.”

“Just what I was taught,” Gary shrugs, then pours the mix into the martini glass. “Could you be a dear and grab another glass for me?”

Harry picks the closest one that looks vaguely like a martini glass, stares at it for a bit too long trying to figure out if he’s accidentally chosen a cocktail glass, and then hands it over for Gary to fill that one too. Gary accepts it with a cursory glance, and it makes Harry irrationally proud to have successfully discerned a martini glass from a cocktail glass in his current state of inebriation. “What about garnishes? I seem to recall some sort of peels.”

“Anything will do,” Gary dismisses, and passes a glass of Martini to Harry.

“I’m going to grab us some lemons and then you can stare at those as well,” Harry offers, but remains stubbornly plastered to Gary’s person anyway.

“You’re such an arse,” Gary snorts, and takes an obnoxiously loud sip of his Martini sans garnishing.

“To terrible Bond Bradfords,” Harry toasts.

The Martinis are quickly finished off, after which Gary makes him mix Martini after Martini—each with a different garnish— until Harry can make the drink in his sleep. (And he very nearly does because his eyes are barely open for the last Martini.)

By the time they stumble out of the establishment, Harry is both drunk on a fuzzy feeling in his gut and far too many of what Harry honestly believes is just cold, diluted gin with some kind of fruit for garnish.

Because Harry doesn’t think he can handle the intellectually demanding security features that would grant him admission into S.E.A. HQ (and by extension his room) and Gary doesn’t even seem capable of remembering where he’s supposed to be staying, they settle with the first motel they come across. It’s small, has a name Harry can’t make heads or tails of, and appears to be family-owned and family-run.

“Two rooms, sirs?” the receptionist enquires.

Gary’s eyes dart to Harry, who holds his breath and waits for Gary to say something. His gaze is smouldering, and Harry thinks back to earlier when he told Gary that he was a sure thing.

“Just the one, please, with a single double bed,” Gary says eventually, still keeping his eyes on Harry.

Harry feels himself burn away before they even receive their keys.

\---

Harry hasn’t ever imagined himself telling someone that he loves them (he spent too long believing that there would be nobody he could say it to), but, even if he has, he’d never imagine that it would happen after an impromptu Martini-making workshop conducted by his-but-not-actually-his soulmate and a drunken round of bedroom acrobatics in a motel which name Harry can’t even read, much less pronounce.

“Gary whatever-your-last-name-is, I fucking love you,” Harry blurts out after a very thorough good morning kiss that’s wonderful despite smelling (and tasting) like morning breath.

Gary grins, and Harry suddenly wonders—rather inappropriately—if Gary is still pleasantly sore from yesterday night. The mole on Gary’s throat bobs as he swallows. Harry remembers what it tastes like under his lips, remembers how it quivered with every sharp thrust and languid roll of his hips. “Harry you-never-told-me-your-last-name-either, I fucking love you too.”

“Good,” Harry says because there’s really nothing else to say to that.

“Even if you don’t want me you’re stuck with me forever,” Gary murmurs against Harry’s ear, and Harry just surges forward to devour him again, well aware that he may one day no longer have the privilege of kissing this wonderful man who is Harry’s soulmate but whose soulmate is not Harry.

Forever sounds wonderful. Harry will take forever if it is an option, and even if it isn’t he’ll take what Gary is willing to give him over not having anything at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update on the Merlin project (I'm just going to call the interactive story the 'Merlin project' from now on): I have between 1000 and 2000 lines of code, no plot to speak of, and decided that it will be run on your computer's command terminal to avoid GUI issues that may arise (because I'm coding on Ubuntu and I'm not sure if GUI codes will transfer well to other OS). I am able thus far to compile the code for Windows, so I'm fairly certain that, should the project ever come to fruition, I will have a version for Windows users. However, as I don't have iOS to test or compile it with, the possibility of distributing the project to iOS users will be a lot more uncertain.
> 
> Update: I've created a tumblr blog to chronicle updates on the Merlin project. Any idea contributions can be submitted directly to it. [[x](http://the-merlin-project.tumblr.com/)]


	4. Chapter 4

Harry would be lying if he says he’s not looking forward to their one-month anniversary. He’s determined to surprise Gary this time to make up for all the wondrous things that Gary’s sprung on him, although he’s still not certain what he will actually do. Another day at the beach? A cake he bakes himself? A discreet nudge toward a high-end hotel?

They are having dinner at a small local restaurant—apparently renowned for its chilli crab—just a couple of days shy of that highly anticipated one-month anniversary when all of Harry’s half-baked plans go up in smoke before they are even in the oven.

Gary has been called out by a waiter who expressionlessly informs them that there is somebody outside looking for him. Through the window, Harry watches a sharply dressed woman exchange heated words with Gary, who is displaying signs of mild distress. The keening strains of the violin and the groaning moans of the cello from the live band sound less like crooning and more like wails the longer he watches Gary and the woman argue back and forth.

It doesn’t look personal. It looks like work, especially given the particular signature style of spectacles and suit that the woman is wearing.

When Gary comes back he smiles at Harry as widely as he always does, but there’s something brittle about the way the corners of his mouth cling stubbornly to the bottoms of his cheeks. Whatever it is that the woman is here for, it’s not good news.

This is it. This is the end of Harry’s time with Gary. Harry’s training is screaming with all the little tells that he reflexively notices, and while he wants nothing more than to be blissfully oblivious to them he’s not trained enough to be able to shut that part of him down.

It’s so hard to get the cotton out of his head when Gary sits back down opposite him and tucks into his half-eaten piece of chicken as if the woman-who-is-probably-a-Kingsman isn’t still outside the restaurant eyeing them with eyes like knives. He can barely put a thought together that’s not along the lines of “why now” and “too soon”. However, it’s clear that Gary doesn’t want him to bring it up, so Harry starts talking about the one thing that mandatory hours at the tailor shop has drilled into his mind so thoroughly he doesn’t even need to think to converse about: suits.

It is easily the worst conversation they’ve ever had. Neither of them is investing more than a token effort to keep the conversation going, and it’s such a terrible way to end such a wonderful month. But Harry doesn’t know how to make it better. He’s not sure he _can_ make it better.

Harry barely tastes the yam paste that’s been served up for dessert.

A part of him that still believes in ‘happily ever after’s wants Gary to tell him that nothing is wrong, but the other, larger, more sensible part feels nothing but resignation when Gary silently leads him to a pillar outside of the restaurant after dinner. Now that he’s outside, he can see a local cab idling nearby. The woman is still there, staring, and the smile that Harry’s been forcing himself to put on for Gary falls apart completely.

Getting Gary to speak is an uphill battle, and when he does loosen Gary’s tongue the words he hears put bullets through his suit (through the fragile shield Harry has been constructing for the last few minutes, through the desperate hope and cries of denial) and straight into his heart. “I’m really sorry, Harry, but I need to go. I never meant to, believe me. It’s…it’s super-secret and they’re wiping all my records and oh, god, Harry, I’m so fucking sorry for making you fall in love with me even though I’m not your soulmate and going away even though I promised you forever. Fuck! I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I love you so fucking much, Harry, and I’m sorry I fucked up. I want that happy ending with you so fucking badly. I promise you’ll find me again, but it’ll be a long time later so don’t you wait for me, all right? Just promise me that you’ll be happy, please.”

_Too soon, too soon, too soon._

But the words are out of Gary’s mouth, and Harry can’t pretend anymore.

“I can’t. Gary, you’re the only one for me. Even if the universe tells me that you’re not supposed to be mine, I’m always going to be yours. It knew what it was doing, after all, when it handed out our soulmate marks.” Harry tries for a smile, but it comes out feeling paper-thin. “These last few days have been the happiest of my life and I don’t regret a single moment even if it breaks my heart now to watch you go. So find whoever it is that says the words here and promise me you’ll find your happiness with them, no matter how short it may be, all right? Promise me, love.”

“What?”

Harry fumbles with the straps of his watch—one half of a pair that they bought barely a week ago. When it comes undone, Harry slides the watch away from his wrist and turns his hand palm up so that his words are exposed for Gary to see.

_‘Incoming at your five o’ clock!’_

“I really do love you, even if I’ve only known you for a few weeks. I don’t even know who the fuck you really are but, oh, god, Gary, I wouldn’t change this for the world.”

“Harry,” Gary gasps. “Oh my god, Harry, all this time…”

“It seems that you’ve pulled the short end of the stick in our deal. You’ve been my soulmate the whole time, but I’m just somebody you met on a rooftop. But I’m glad it’s you. I can’t imagine anyone else for whom I’d rather hold a torch for the rest of my life. I’m glad that you loved me, at least for a while, and I’ll never forget you.” How can he forget the man who’s shown him what he’s never even dared to dream of, who has taught him what it feels like to love and be loved?

Suddenly, Harry is wrapped up in a tight, painful hug. “Fuck you, Harry Hart. You can’t tell me this now. You fucking _can’t_!” Gary presses a bruising kiss to his lips that Harry chases because he has a dreadful feeling that this might be their last. “I can’t explain things now ‘cause you won’t understand it yet, but just wait for me, all right? It’s going to be a fucking long wait, but I promise you that I’ll be back, we’ll talk, and after that we’re going to spend the rest of our mortal lives being so sickeningly sweet together that we’ll give Merlin cavities until one of us gets blown up in the field. I’m not taking no for an answer, Harry. Fucking promise me you’ll wait.”

“I promise,” Harry tells him, slightly stunned by the fierceness of Gary’s conviction that it will be a long time before they meet again, and stunned once over by the absurdity of said conviction. What is Gary doing? What is it that will keep him away—keep _them_ apart—for ages? “I don’t know how the fuck you know my last name or who the fuck Merlin is but I’ll wait however long I have to.”

“Good, because this might take decades before you understand that you and I, Harry fucking Hart, we’re written in the stars. Fuck. I’m so sorry for leaving you so abruptly at this point without a proper explanation, but just know that I fucking love you and I wouldn’t change this for the world either.”

Harry blinks once.

The woman is gone, and Gary has fled into the cab with her.

\---

Gone.

Gary is gone.

Harry gambled his heart, and it remains to see if he will walk away from this with any chips left.

The worst part is he doesn’t regret anything. It’s so naïve of him, but if Gary said to wait, then that is exactly what Harry will do.

\---

There were only a couple of days left of the cross-cultural exchange when Gary left. No. 7 takes one look at him and silently removes him from the mission roster after Harry turns up at S.E.A. HQ the next day with bags under his eyes that have been badly concealed by makeup. As No. 7 sits Harry down at the table in his office and patiently guides him through the art of priming the canvas that is his face (and, after another glance, his knuckles), he makes the smallest of small talks that Harry has ever endured.

Today’s weather, yesterday’s weather, tomorrow’s weather. The day before’s weather, the day after’s weather, yearly weather patterns. Weather, weather, social event, weather. Repeat. Harry has never known a man better versed in weather patterns than his guide.

“So. Gary,” No. 7 says suddenly. He is smiling the same slightly too cheerful smile that he uses all the time, fingers expertly dabbing a bit of flesh-coloured liquid-paste-thing onto the skin under Harry’s eyes.

“Galahad,” Harry corrects reflexively. What sort of Kingsman agent couldn’t even remember a name anyway? And Gary’s name isn’t even all that similar to Harry’s codename. It’s one syllable short, for one.

“No,” No. 7 says, shaking his head. “Let’s talk about Gary.”

Oh. Harry’s throat seizes. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

No. 7 rolls his eyes, still smiling pleasantly. “Of course not. You’ve been dating a mass hallucination for the last month, obviously. I’ve already written up a report to Arthur to inform him that Galahad’s no longer fit for duty after being subjected to the heat of the tropics, and that U.K. HQ needs more rigorous selection processes to weed out any delicate flowers. And I’ve also put in a notice to the R&D division that their spectacles are picking up spectres so they can keep a tighter rein on their tech—don’t want those pesky supernatural phenomenon hunters getting wind of our discovery.”

“Just teach me how to cover up and give me a mission,” Harry mutters. He should’ve taken his spectacles off that first day he met Gary, and every day after.

“You realise that your failure will be on my head, don’t you? And besides, I was just about to tell you that he’s right, you know. Give him a couple of decades and you’ll find him again.” Harry wants to ask how No. 7 knows this, but then he remembers the woman that spoke to Gary outside the restaurant and the dark frames of her spectacles and decides that he doesn’t need to. No. 7 pushes a fat, flaring brush into Harry’s hands. Harry stares at it, and No. 7 just looks so put upon that he will apparently have to teach Harry how to use a bloody makeup brush.

Harry makes a few experimental flicks of the brush over his skin. He tries not to think about how it feels too much like the brush of Gary’s lips on his cheeks. “You sound so certain.”

“I am.” No. 7 plucks the brush from Harry’s fingers and takes over when it becomes clear that Harry will take more than just a couple of seconds to master this. He makes sure to tilt the mirror so that Harry can see what he is doing. “Whatever that lover boy agent is doing is technically under S.E.A. HQ jurisdiction for the time being, so I think I’d know better than you.”

“But _decades_. Can you do that? Send people on missions that last that long?” Harry asks incredulously.

“If and when the situation requires, yes. You should know by now that accepting Kingsman Knighthood means you’ve practically sold your soul to the organisation.” No. 7 actually beams as if selling his soul to Kingsman was the single proudest thing he’s ever accomplished in his life. Maybe it is. He seems to be getting a kick out of needling hapless overseas agents.

“Figuratively,” Harry corrects, because stuffy grammar schools tend to do that to their students even after years since graduation. “And don’t sound so pleased about it. Kingsman’s hardly the best of its ilk, just the richest.”

“All the more reason to enjoy being in its employ. I bet CIA or MI6 don’t pay as well or have as many benefits.” Ah. And there it is: the Singaporean drive to be the best at and possess the best of everything. Harry almost forgot that No. 7 was born and raised locally with how, around Harry, he’s always adopting an accent native only to American newscasters that sounds like it came straight from a broadcasting channel.

(Another agent Harry spoke to had a British accent from a region he can’t quite place, and yet another sounded Australian. There are also a few who spoke very clearly and precisely but with distinctively regional flairs. At the end of the day, however, all of them revert back to a common—and somewhat difficult to understand—local accent when they’re talking among themselves. It both baffles and fascinates him and makes him long for the familiar cadences of home.)

“They probably don’t send their agents out on decades-long missions either. Is this because he’s not with his soulmate? Is Kingsman making full use of their unattached assets?”

No. 7 pauses to consider, brush stilling above Harry’s skin. “A consequence, perhaps, but not directly caused by it. Anyway, Kingsman is still a relatively small and insular organisation—it needs to maximise its labour force to the best of its abilities.” He fiddles with something in his extensive makeup bag. “Either way, you should give up now or be prepared to wait a very long time.”

Harry very nearly snorts. “You’re an unattached 30-year-old. I don’t think you’re qualified to give advice.”

“At least I tried,” No. 7 replies, not having the decency to look the least bit chastised. “Besides, not everybody wants somebody. At least, not in the way you're thinking.”

Harry thinks there might be a backstory in there somewhere but he’s not interested in prying. “I ought to feel sorry for your soulmate, but I think they’re probably exactly like you. If that’s the case, I’m not inclined at all to experience a single mote of sympathy,” Harry bites, feeling a smile quirk at the edges of his mouth.

“Atta boy. There we go. Back to being operationally ready.” No. 7 grins like he’s achieved something great, and, given how Harry feels on the verge of smiling despite being utterly dispirited just moments earlier, Harry is tempted to agree with him for once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spilt water over my desk and now my keyboard and graphic tablet aren't working. It's been a bad week. And damn it, I'm starting to like No. 7, which is so many shades of not good because I'm not going to be able to stop myself from writing him into more and more of the story, and that's not what anybody comes to read fan fiction for, so I'll try to tone it down.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm relieved to know that people are actually okay with No. 7; I have plans for him to play a somewhat small but important-to-continuity role in the not-so-far future. I'm a little concerned that I will play up certain aspects of his personality so much that he becomes flat and unrealistic, so I hope that, if it ever comes to that, somebody will alert me. And this chapter is really short, for which I am sorry, but I've been caught up in reports lately so I'm not in much of a mood to write more than I absolutely have to. On the upside, I've gotten myself a new graphic tablet.

His departure from S.E.A. HQ is quiet. Most of the local agents are either finishing up their missions or have already been granted the week off in commemoration of Singapore’s National Day, so Harry’s farewell party consists only of No. 7 and No. 1, the local equivalent of Arthur.

As No. 1 shakes Harry’s hand, she says, “I hope your time with us has been fulfilling. You’re welcome to visit us anytime.”

“That would be wonderful,” Harry tells her truthfully, because everybody has been nothing but welcoming. The only thing holding him back is the phantom ghost of Gary that follows him around whenever he walks alone where they once walked together.

“I don’t think anybody will want the room with the wall you smashed in, so we’ll keep that one for you,” No. 7 chimes in cheerfully. “And if you need more makeup tips, you know where to find me.”

“How could I not. You fiddled with my spectacles and set yourself as speed dial two. I couldn’t change it even if I want to—trust me, I tried,” Harry deadpans. He taps a quick rhythm with the heel of his shoes to prove his point, and a channel opens between him and No. 7. “For your sake I hope international calls are waived by Kingsman, because I’m sending all my phone bills to you.”

No. 7 grimaces. “They’re not. Don’t abuse my calling code.”

No. 1 gives No. 7 a very pointed look. “You do realise that the code is strictly for work-related business, don’t you?”

“Of course I do. Besides, look at him,” No. 7 says, gesturing at Harry. “It’ll be a cold day in hell before he breaks a single rule.”

Harry thinks of the time he was almost expelled from school for burning down a chemistry lab and wisely refrains from bringing it up.

“Oh, yes, and before I forget, your boy left you…” No. 7 slips a hand into the breast pocket of his suit, and starts patting himself all over and digging into the extra slots for concealing weapons like small knives when his search repeatedly turns up empty.

“You did _not_ lose whatever it is,” Harry hisses.

“Ah ha!” No. 7 exclaims triumphantly when he finds whatever he’s looking for right behind his pocket square. He hands it over with a grin, “To start your collection, he said.”

Harry takes the newspaper clipping in his hands and unfolds it. It is the front page of the local paper from the day they first met, and, scribbled in a corner, is an address where backdated newspapers can be obtained.

The clipping is a reminder that sits over Harry’s heart for the journey home. Harry thinks about the mysterious collection that Gary wants him to start, thinks about the walls at home plastered with butterflies, thinks of a different—more morbid, more personal—sort of private exhibition to put up on the empty walls in his office, and sets about recalling the dates of his missions.

\---

The problem with being told to wait for a few decades is that Harry grows far too impatient. He is not a particularly tolerant man by nature—though he has learnt to wait when necessary—so the idea of sitting on his hands for so long seems preposterous. He knows he’s meant to wait, but when what would be their one-year anniversary comes around, he barely hesitates before taking a week off and booking a flight to Singapore.

\---

Harry turns up at S.E.A. HQ with bags under his eyes after trying and failing to sleep on the flight from Heathrow. The quartermaster, No. 0, takes a single look at Harry’s sleep-deprived face and immediately ushers him off to the room in which he stayed during the exchange. The hole he punched into the wall after Gary left is still there. Harry manages to wait until No. 0 has shut the door behind him before flopping over onto the bed, his body exhausted but his mind bright and alert.

He’s back. This is where it all started, where it all ended. When he closes his eyes he can almost swear that he can smell the burn of sun on concrete pavements, the hot, wet air that pinks Gary’s skin and coats it liberally with sweaty, salty sheen. When he opens his eyes at the knock at the door, the smells disappear, and he is left with vivid ghosts of sensations and the sterile soap of laundry detergent.

“Galahad?”

“You might as well come in,” Harry sighs.

No. 7 pushes the door open. He stops at the threshold and looks at Harry for a few long moments. “You know, I don’t think this was what Gary meant when he told you to wait.”

“I don’t think Gary knows what he’s asking of me,” Harry mutters.

“Actually, I think he does,” No. 7 says, then smiles cryptically and refuses to elaborate despite Harry’s unamused look of frustration.

“Why say anything if you won’t clarify what you mean?” Harry grouses half-heartedly.

No. 7 shrugs. “Occupational hazard; we never say what we mean. Are you taking missions or will you be too busy moping?”

“I’m reminiscing, not moping. And I have to earn my keep somehow, but only if No. 1 agrees.”

No. 7 considers Harry’s fatigued appearance. “I don’t think you’ll have any problems convincing her, but only if you actually try to look alive.”

“My track record speaks for itself. I’m better than you even on a bad day.”

“Touché,” No. 7 says, pretending to be offended. “You’ve made quite a name for yourself, even on this side of the world. I don’t know if this is a good thing, given that you’re meant to be practising subtlety and discretion. We’ve got a staff or two with a thing for you and I’m not even sure they know what you look like. I’m tempted to discourage them, but that’s not really my place, is it?” No. 7 gives Harry a broad smile, but his eyes catch knowingly on Harry’s wrist.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself just because you’ve figured things out.”

“I didn’t even have to, really. You weren’t very discreet when our agent came to take Gary with her.”

Harry mutters a string of curses under his breath while No. 7 politely pretends to cover his ears.

“Nobody else knows, of course. I’m not as indiscreet as you. Anyway, I’ll let No. 1 know you’re here, so get a good night’s rest and maybe you’ll have a mission to keep you occupied by tomorrow. Good night.”

Harry lies back onto the bedding once No. 7 has closed the door behind him.

He already feels marginally better by being in the only place he’s ever been with Gary.

\---

There’s a mission waiting for Harry the next morning, and he’s never been more relieved that the screaming of his muscles as he chases another aspiring illegal firearms dealer is enough to drown out the voices in his head.

\---

On days when he has no missions lined up—that is to say, days when No. 1 enforces a refractory period while sighing to herself like the world is out to get her because the fact that nobody in this goddamned headquarters wants to take a five minute break pretty much guarantees that she’s stuck in her office signing off requisitions and being debriefed 24-7—Harry tries to trace the ghosts of Gary’s footsteps: the beach, the watch shop, the run-down motel, stop, rehydrate, the beach, the watch shop.

He doesn’t understand why his feet insist on taking him to places that send his heart into painful palpitations. It’s stupid and it’s foolish, but if he stares long enough at the bench where Gary made him wish upon the candles of a two-week anniversary cake, he can almost feel Gary’s lips on his and taste the smoke of smothered flames melting on his tongue.

Wherever Gary is, Harry hopes that he’s happy.

A part of him that will hopefully go forever unacknowledged also selfishly hopes, no matter how happy Gary is right now, that his happiness will not be complete without Harry.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's not much pining or Hartwin in this chapter, but there is a lot of Merlin. In fact, this chapter is all about Harry and Merlin's rocky beginning. Which essentially means that it's pretty light-hearted.
> 
> Somebody asked a while ago if I had a picture of No. 7. Assuming they meant a face claim, I said no. It wasn't easy to find somebody that fit my mental image of No. 7, and the more photos I looked at the more blurry it became. Now that I have a little more free time, I decided to hell with face claims and painted a picture of what I imagine No. 7 looks like. It's embedded awkwardly near the start of the chapter because that's one of the only two places he was mentioned. I hope he looks like a legitimate enough Kingsman agent, and I also hope I didn't ruin anybody's opinion of him now that you've got a face to put to the name...

It has been nearly two years since Gary left, and Harry is counting down the days to another visit to S.E.A. HQ. He wonders if Chester King will be all right with looking after Mr. Pickle for another two weeks. When his proposal for Kay’s position is eliminated after the second written test he barely gives the man more than a firm handshake before seeing him off, then returns to his work so that everything is in order in time for his trip.

Walking the streets without Gary is easier now. It shouldn’t be. He doesn’t want it to be. But the fact remains that time does heal some wounds, even if not perfectly, even if it leaves large starburst scars under his skin. Most times Harry feels properly functional again unless he’s alone at night with the shadows of Gary’s laughter wrapping around him and letting himself relive the agony of watching Gary go.

No. 7 discreetly screens his missions with No. 1 for potential triggers, but Harry is thankfully left largely to his own devices the moment he’s suited up and released upon the local small fries. And even though it's been years since Harry closed in on himself so badly that he forgets to sleep, No. 0 and No. 7 still insist on mission-free days where they take him out to eat or shop or, on one memorable occasion, meet No. 7's favourite niece. (Mei was an absolute delight, mostly be virtue not seizing every opportunity to mock Harry's intolerance for heat despite clearly being cut from the same cloth as No. 7. Harry can't help but be a little concerned about her interest in military weapons, though.)

_No. 7; originally posted[here](http://lee-luca.tumblr.com/post/134904091009/)_

When he returns to U.K. HQ brown as a nut and more centred than he has been for the past few months, he launches himself back into the ebbs and flows of his job with renewed vigour.

\---

Something has been going on at U.K. HQ ever since his return. There are whispers about consolidating their intelligence resources into a properly established branch of the organisation to better manage their digital information, and while Harry doesn’t put much stock in rumours, when he hears the word ‘Merlin’ being passed around like a badly kept secret, his heart leaps in his throat.

Gary had said something about Merlin, whoever or whatever that is. If nothing else, it reminds Harry that Gary isn’t just a product of a fevered mind (honestly, there was too much sun—even No. 7 had admitted that once), and that somewhere out there is an actual person who owns the words on his wrist.

\---

Their first encounter goes like this.

Harry is pressed up against a wall, and, around the corner, what sounds like a stampede of elephants armed to the tusk with enough ammunition to put a hole through the Earth is gathering. He looks at the pitiful pair of handguns in his hands, says a silent prayer, and hopes that Mallory can guide him out of this with both eyes and (if he’s extremely lucky) all limbs intact.

Suddenly, a strangled cry comes from his earpiece. Just as Harry is beginning to suspect that he will meet his very untimely doom in the unfortunately garishly decorated bunker of a similarly unfortunately garishly dressed drug lord, a voice breaks through the huffing and puffing of what is presumably the consequence of Mallory experiencing a spontaneous heart attack. “Your handler’s gone into labour. My name is Merlin. If you want to live, shut up, keep calm, and listen to me.”

So Harry shuts up, keeps calm, tries his best to decipher the thick Scottish brogue in his ear, and miraculously makes it out alive with all four limbs still attached to his body.

\---

“I hope you brush your teeth very thoroughly and floss every day,” Harry tells Merlin when they finally meet face to face for the first time at the post-mission debriefing.

Merlin raises an eyebrow that does enough judging in one second for three courts of law in a year. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

“Someone once promised me we’ll give you cavities.” Harry smiles from a combination of anticipation and how he can already tell that Merlin will grow on him even if hair doesn’t seem to want to grow on Merlin. “I’m looking forward to it.”

“Agents,” Merlin mutters testily under his breath. “Fucking cryptic bastards.”

Arthur enters the room at that moment and begins telling Harry about the Merlin division and how all mission handlers will henceforth consist only of personnel under it. In a later meeting at the round table—which is emphatically _not_ round—Harry is informed together with the rest of the Knights that all equipment will have to be made accountable to the Merlin division, and that any unauthorised modifications will not be tolerated unless reported to Merlin for testing and official approval. Agents will also have to report to the Merlin division on a rotating schedule to test any new gadgetry and technology as part of their job.

Merlin stands behind Arthur’s chair with a blank expression that somehow manages to convey smugness anyway.

Harry is not looking forward to being Merlin’s guinea pig. Perhaps he really shouldn’t have tried to get a rise out of him earlier.

\---

Harry swears that Merlin waits for Harry’s turn before breaking out any truly dangerous prototypes. The new mechanism for releasing the blade in his Oxfords is one thing, but throwing a lighter at Harry and asking him to catch before going to duck his bald head behind a thick sheet of glass is clearly some form of revenge. Despite not knowing what the hell it does, Harry has enough mind to toss the thing as far as he can—which is very far indeed considering the size of the bunker in which he’s currently being forced to act as Merlin’s lab rat—before running to join Merlin.

He elbows Merlin sharply for good measure just as the lighter explodes in a shower of smoke and sparks and shards. Some fragments dig deep into the glass, and Harry is nothing short of absolutely certain that Merlin heaves a disappointed sigh when he observes that none of them have managed to shatter the glass and bury themselves in Harry’s person.

“What was that?” Harry asks.

“Hand grenade,” Merlin replies, leaving the safety of the glass to inspect the damage. Harry follows behind warily, eyeing the scorch marks and gouges on the ground. “Fits the whole ‘gentleman spy’ thing this organisation seems to be so obsessed with better than the ugly pin-and-pineapple you’ve been using before.”

“That’s certainly not untrue,” Harry mutters. Hand grenade lighters. Where has he heard of them before?

Merlin makes a sound like a snort. “Brilliant observation, Sherlock.” He picks up a fragment and turns it over in his hands. “I should have these fully functional by the end of the year.”

“That’s great, but why are you telling me this?” _Come on._ Think _, Hart. You know hand grenade lighters from_ somewhere _._

Oh.

_Oh._

“You’re going to be the first to use them, of course,” Merlin says pleasantly.

Harry stills. “Do you know a Gary?”

Merlin stares at him for a bit, then shakes his head. “No. Why?”

Harry eyes his watch. “…nothing.”

Merlin’s gaze lingers on Harry for a little longer before he shrugs and continues picking up various fragments from the ground. “If you’re quite done getting lost in your undoubtedly simple and obviously delusional mind, help me collect the pieces and then you’ll be having a go with another prototype.”

He doesn’t know how Gary knew about Merlin’s appointment or about the lighter, but it can’t be a coincidence. It can’t be. Gary clearly knows much more about Kingsman than Harry does, and if this much of what he’s said can be believed, what more his promise to come back to Harry?

\---

“How did you end up in Kingsman?” Harry asks Merlin one day while testing what is hopefully the final design of the hand grenade lighter. He dodges quickly behind the glass sheet and waits for it to explode. Merlin has reduced the blast radius given that any mission that requires agents to dress smartly and carry disguised explosives is likely to be conducted in the presence of large, upper class crowds and thus also be very conducive to collateral damage. Despite this, Harry still feels safer with something between him and the imminent explosion.

Merlin scribbles something down on his clipboard just as the grenade goes off. There is less in the way of shrapnel now, but heat and raw force have been increased to compensate. Harry has a sneaking suspicion that Merlin has also snuck in a few non-lethal neurotoxins just for kicks.

“I was Ector’s proposal for Kay’s position,” Merlin finally says once the smoke has cleared and revealed a dummy with considerable burns all over its lower torso. “Long story short, I hacked into the network and Arthur offered me a permanent position if I fixed what I compromised and stayed to improve it. The rest,” Merlin gestures at the remains of the explosion in front of them, “is me negotiating the terms to give me more autonomy so I don’t go down with a sinking, non-innovating ship.”

Harry glances as the small area in which the devastating damage delivered by the grenade was concentrated. “I’m glad you’re on our side.”

“Don’t jump to conclusions just yet. If MI6 gives me a better offer, I might just reconsider.”

\---

“Is your name really Merlin?”

Merlin doesn’t deign to give Harry an answer.

\---

The grenade design is finalised by the time Christmas rolls around. Merlin’s new pet project seems to be his clipboard, which Harry cannot imagine has room for upgrading (no matter how good Merlin is at improving things that shouldn't be capable of improvement) considering how well it performs its job while devoid of anything approaching twentieth century technology.

“What will you have me test next?”

Merlin glares at Harry, presumably because Harry is picking his way through Merlin’s workspace. Harry pointedly doesn't touch any of Merlin’s dissected machines because, even if he doesn't mind perishing on a mission, he most certainly minds perishing on a mission due to sabotaged equipment. “We have a couple of upgraded spectacles capable of receiving, not just recording, information. It might be beneficial for you agents to get used to them before we properly implement them in your missions.”

“I can see us outcompeting MI6 at this rate.”

“We’ll see about that.”

“What’s this?” Harry points to an umbrella with a ribbed handle made of polished wood lying atop one of Merlin’s many tables.

“Hmm? Oh, that. Tristan was just telling me that he’d like me to put a concealed sword in his umbrella. It’s not hard; I could probably do that in a day if swords could be made that quickly, but I told him to leave it with me for a couple of months because he completely ruined his suit and I had to develop a stronger Kevlar blend just so he wouldn’t come back starkers after every mission. I swear that man has no self-control.”

The image of Gary—does _everything_ have to remind Harry of Gary?—on one knee shooting something from his umbrella comes unbidden to Harry’s mind. “…Have you considered ballistics?”

Merlin stops tinkering with the clipboard, pauses for a moment, and then looks straight at Harry. “Tell me more.”

\---

“You’re not seriously telling me you’ll be gone for two weeks. The prototype should be ready for testing any time now.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll bring back souvenirs. If you miss me, I’m just a phone call away.”

Merlin rolls his eyes. “Fret not; I won’t even notice that you’re gone. Just remember that _this_ ,” Merlin waves an umbrella in Harry’s face, “was all your idea and I want you to see this through before some agent gets it in his mind to royally screw it up during testing.”

“I’ll be back before you know it.”

“At least tell me where you’re going so I can give you something to try out while you’re there,” Merlin says, digging through his stash of prototypes.

“I won’t have time for it where I’m going.”

Merlin side eyes him. “You better not be off on a holiday or I’ll wring your neck when you get back. Two weeks is too long especially for Kingsman.”

“Then I probably shouldn’t tell you, now, should I?” Harry grins, and turns to leave. He touches his watch as he goes.

Merlin’s indignant spluttering gets Harry through the day in a very good mood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've seen very many people refer to umbrellas as Rainmakers, but I'm having trouble finding the origin of this association (or if indeed calling umbrellas Rainmakers is a common practice) so I'm refraining from using the term for now.
> 
> 13/12/2015: I've had no less than 4 kind souls inform me that the Kingsman website has listed Rainmaker as the name of their umbrellas. Your helpfulness is much appreciated and will not be forgotten.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I should try to defend myself by saying that I tried to write something within the last one and a half years, but to be quite honest I haven't been able to write a single word for a really long time. And I can't promise that the next update will be made available in a timely manner either. So in the meantime just...enjoy what there is.

At some point, his visits to S.E.A HQ blur into one. He still tracks time by the number of years since Gary, but he’s been over to the HQ often enough that it sometimes feels like coming home more than any of his flights back to London ever have. Of course, he does have to at least pretend that he’s not a freeloader so it’s not all sunshine and beaches and missing Gary, but No. 7 and No. 1 and the memories of Gary welcome him like family. A particularly dysfunctional one, but family nonetheless.

He doesn’t know when he starts to come to terms with the fact that Gary really did mean it when he said that it would be a “long fucking wait.” However, between one year and the next, he finds that it’s no longer quite so painful to take off his watch—the one with ‘Gary’ etched on its back—and spend an entire night watching his pulse run through tiny lines of blue.

Gary would’ve wanted him to get out there and live his life instead of trapping himself in the past, though, and Harry wants to have made something of himself by the time Gary comes back into his life, so he pushes himself up each morning, slips his arms through the sleeves of his Kevlar-blend suit, and sets off for the next underground gambling den in perfectly shined Oxfords and a Merlin-certified umbrella on one arm.

It’s easier now, but Harry still likes the little reminders of what he had with Gary here. Maybe someday he would be able to walk into an unfamiliar place and think, “Gary would love it here,” instead of, “I wish Gary were here,” but that day isn’t today.

Today, Harry shields his eyes from the sun with an outstretched hand and thinks, “I’m one day closer to you.”

\---

“Lee Unwin. Nice to meet you,” the Royal Marines officer says to Harry over a pint of beer and bloody knuckles that have only recently been acquainted with the nose of a thug currently lying face down in an alley beside the bar. Good riddance to the sort of rubbish that would steal money from children.

“Pleasure to meet you too,” Harry says, and decides that Lee Unwin—very young father of one, has use for a generous paycheque and a job that actually tests his mettle—would make the perfect candidate for Lancelot’s position. “I have a proposition for you.”

“I’m all ears if you take that bug off my shoulder,” Lee Unwin says through a smile full of teeth.

“Well then, I hope you like dogs, because I see one in your very near future,” Harry says, and reaches out to pluck the stick-on microphone—Merlin’s latest pet project—from Lee Unwin’s jacket.

\---

Harry Hart is 31 when he first considers leaving Kingsman.

Lee Unwin was 25 when he died. _Twenty-five_. He had a son and a wife and an extremely bright future in the Marines and Harry took it all away without so much as a thank you or a goodbye. And even if Lee could find it in himself to forgive Harry (which Harry thinks is highly unlikely because Lee could hold a grudge to rival the best of them), Harry doesn’t think his son and wife ever would. He had ripped something irreplaceably precious from them and all he could give in return was a fucking medal.

What good would a piece of metal do for a grieving family?

Harry grips his watch. Gary said he would be back, and Harry only wishes that he could offer the same assurance about Lee to his widow and son.

(He remembers Lee’s son. God, the boy is so _young_. Lee spent so many hours telling Harry stories of his son that Harry can still hear the fondness of Lee’s voice as he says, “Eggsy,” over and over again. He remembers thinking that it’s a silly name, remembers the way his heart stuttered when Lee, who actually resembles Gary to a frightening degree when Harry really looks, tells him that his son is actually officially ‘Gary.’ He didn't ask if Eggsy was named after a family member, but only because Gary only ever asked for him to be patient and Harry never wants to break his trust.)

Ultimately, his decision to stay stems from a deep sense of guilt and the knowledge that he would be of even less help to Lee’s family out of Kingsman than in it.

Unfortunately, nobody reaches out to Harry for help.

Lee’s dog, a flat-faced pug that was all that’s left after everybody else had called dibs on the poodles and Dobermans, whines at Harry’s feet as he downs another glass of wine and waits for a phone call that never comes.

“Why don’t you go keep Mr. Pickle company in the dog bed?” Harry says to the pug, nudging it with a slippered foot. The dog makes a huffing sound and tries to wind itself around Harry’s leg like a cat. Needless to say, it fails miserably, as the pug is about as long and thin and flexible as a shot glass.

Harry sighs. “Look, you silly dog, you have to know when you’re out of your depth. Get over it and go back to doing pug-things. You’re good at those.”

The pug just whines again and settles on Harry’s foot.

Get over it, huh?

When Harry’s finished the bottle, he scoops Lee’s pug up and shrugs on his shoulder harnesses. It’s a shame that what he’s good at—fighting, subterfuge, and generally being anything that can be remotely described as dangerous—overlaps too extensively with things that make him want to throw a pity party just thinking about them. It’s not so easy to get over anything when everything is a persistent reminder of his failure.

\---

Merlin refuses to watch over the rowdy pug while Harry goes off on his annual visit, so Harry brings it with him.

\---

Lee’s pug seemed to enjoy the insane heat of Singapore so he left it there. Last he heard, one of the agents (not No. 7, thank god for small mercies) has taken it home. It was never very happy in Harry’s home anyway—it hurt too much to look at the pug, and, for such an affectionate breed, living with a man as distant as him must’ve been stifling.

Harry wonders where Gary leaves his dog when on a mission and comes up with a couple hundred ideas including Gary’s soulmate. He wonders if Gary, like Lee’s pug, would be happier away from him, too.

It is a foolish thought. Gary has promised to come back, and Kingsman agents always keep their word.

\---

The day Mr. Pickle died, Harry felt a little bit of himself die as well. It reminds him of how much things have been changing, and how much they will continue to change, but it also reminds him of the only constant in his life—the unchanging emptiness next to him where Gary should be.

He can't do this. He can't let another thing just disappear from his life like that, like how Gary'd left and how Harry took Lee from his family. Mr. Pickle had been his touchstone whenever his missions struck a little too close to home, when he'd had to make a choice between taking a life and letting someone die. The house is too big for one person, however many ghosts he may have crowding the living room and lining the stairwell.

Merlin may not approve but he finds Harry a taxidermist without mouthing off, so Harry decides that maybe Merlin can be his new constant. It's barely a friendship, but sometimes a bit of distance works too. Harry can't keep falling apart every time he's left behind.

\---

Bad things happen to good people. That is a fact. Worse things happen to bad people. That is also a fact.

What is not a fact, however, is Harry Hart losing things that are important to him and not noticing.

At least, it wasn’t, until now.

“Fuck.”

Somewhere between visit number eighteen and a red-eye flight to Heathrow, Harry loses his watch in Singapore, along with a bit of his sanity.

\---

“No. 0 found it in your room,” No. 7 tells Galahad one day in between mouthfuls of nasi rendang.

“ _Thank god_ ,” Galahad says. “Gary would’ve killed me if I’d lost it for good.”

No. 7 hums into the receiver absentmindedly—not really a reply, but not really a dismissal either. He likes this year’s national day song, not least because it drives No. 4 to homicidal rage, and he can’t help it if he’s curious whether an Englishman can catch this particular earworm through the crackly reception of the telephone. “It’s just your luck that I’m making a trip over to U.K. HQ in a couple of months. Unless you’d rather brave international mail, of course.”

“I wouldn’t trust it with a sack of crushed bullet shells. Bring the watch with you when you come.”

\---

No. 7 touches down in Heathrow wrapped up in enough scarves to raise several eyebrows, including those of the security personnel, who have him take every single one of them off. Honestly, they should be more worried about that matronly woman touching up her makeup in a mirror that’s really a concealed camera, but who is he to tell England how to run their security checks. It’s not his business if America doesn’t trust even its closest friend across the pond.

(Granted, it could potentially become his business if U.K. HQ ever calls for backup, but No. 1 would sooner assassinate the prime minister than let him deal with Americans again.)

After re-wrapping himself back up in his scarves and ensuring that his nose isn’t about to fall off from the cold, No. 7 sets off for Holborn police station.

Of what little he’s managed to put together about Galahad’s precious Gary, a missing watch might be the least of his worries. There’s a chance that Gary comes from a different world altogether, an alternate timeline, perhaps, where events have somehow miraculously conspired to bring him out of poverty and to Kingsman’s attention. With the way UK’s management has been stagnating, it’s a wonder that Gary ever became a candidate to begin with.

But he’s not taking chances with Galahad’s happiness, especially since S.E.A HQ doesn’t have any spare underground bunkers for Galahad to blow up in a fit of despair, and No. 7 doesn’t fancy getting a pay cut for not being able to control his once-charge. So, off to find Gary it is.

\---

The search for Gary lasts something like five minutes, which is disappointingly short. Kingsman will have its work cut out for it if it ever needs to erase his records, because he has more petty crimes to his name than No. 7 has red on his ledger.

“Need a new watch, young man?” No. 7 says to the frowning teenager that has just walked out of Holborn police station, looking sulky and brooding and scuffing his shoe on one of the many cigarette butts littering the floor. Gary Unwin looks a lot like Galahad’s Gary, which is a given, although No. 7 didn’t expect this level of similarity—younger, of course, but with a surprising levelheadedness to him that No. 7 previously assumed was the by-product of Kingsman training.

Then the boy opens his mouth and No. 7 is reminded of why nobody ever trusts his judgement when it comes to people.

“The fuck you want?”

So defensive. That will have to be beaten out of him, but he won’t bother with that if he’s not getting paid for it. Perhaps Galahad will enjoy taking on that particular responsibility. “Asia is a marvellous place,” No. 7 says instead.

Gary looks at him like he’s never seen anybody who has quite so obviously escaped from a mental asylum with nothing but a syringe and two paperclips.

“Leave me alone or I swear I’ll fuck you up.”

“Language,” No. 7 says cheerfully despite knowing full well that Galahad’s Gary will never really grow out of his fondness for certain unsavoury words. He reaches into his suit jacket and pulls out the watch. “I have a watch, and I think it would suit you. In fact, I’ve never seen anyone I’ve wanted to sell it to more.”

Of course, No. 7 has never actually had any intention of selling it, whether to Galahad or to Gary or to anyone else, because profiting off a fellow agent’s misery would be unethical. On the other hand, morality is not something Kingsman agents are known to have in excess, and a little pocket money never hurt anyone.

“I ain’t got no money.”

“I’m trying to make a living, not land myself in jail for daylight robbery.” No. 7 smiles pleasantly. “Is your name Gary? You look like a Gary.”

Gary Unwin understandably recoils. “How the fuck d'you know that?”

If he didn’t before, he does now. This is terrible starting material for a Kingsman. Gary is such a diamond in the rough, with emphasis on rough. If he hadn’t seen that footage of him fighting 18 years ago, No. 7 might even be inclined to question whether Gary even is a diamond at all.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m just a travelling salesman coming home after a long trip to Asia,” No. 7 says serenely, even as he continues using his generic American accent. To be honest, he doesn’t really care if Gary catches his lie, although U.K. HQ will really have to reconsider its selection process if he can’t. No. 7 can’t imagine Arthur being overly willing to expend too many resources polishing raw diamonds that somehow managed to survive the recruitment trials and make the cut. “You look like a nice young man. Maybe you’d like to be the first to buy my wares.”

Gary snorts. “Like hell I’m believin’ that.”

He has the barest minimum of scepticism possessed by civilians who don’t end up swindled of their life savings, at least. Granted, No. 7 isn’t really selling himself as definitely-trustworthy-and-not-at-all-suspicious, but maybe Galahad’s Gary isn’t so hopeless after all—if nothing, at least he’s not completely blind.

“It doesn’t matter if you do, really. Would you like this watch?” No. 7 has never professed to be good at segueing into anything with less abruptness than a cow dropping from a clear sky, but even he has to admit that this conversation has more non-sequiturs than No. 2’s rambling reports. “I’ll let you have it for fifty quid.”

“I don’t even get that much a month.”

“Well, how much do you have, then?”

“Right now? Not enough for that fancy watch, that’s for sure.” Gary stuffs his hands into his jacket pockets—how on earth has the boy still not frozen to death in that threadbare monstrosity?—and eyes No. 7 warily. “Why’re you tryin’ to get me to buy it?”

No. 7 shrugs, and shows Gary the back of the watch. “It says Gary, and you look like a Gary.” That’s the worst lie he’s ever told. He is not fit to be a Kingsman. He's so ashamed of himself that he's tempted to tear off his scarves and let himself freeze to death in this godforsaken frozen wasteland called England.

Gary doesn’t say anything, just stares and stares and stares until No. 7 has to wonder if U.K. HQ eventually takes him on for the sole purpose of capitalising on that unnerving gaze to stare stubborn adversaries into submission. At the moment, No. 7 can’t find much that’s redeeming about the boy aside from a barely healthy sense of distrust.

“If you don’t want it I’d best be going.” It’s no loss if he returns the watch directly to Galahad anyway. He’s not really sure why he thought handing it over to Gary would increase the boy’s chances of being recruited in the first place.

“How much?” Gary says as No. 7 makes an aborted move to turn away.

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

“How much d’you want for it?” Gary repeats, sounding mildly aggrieved at having to do so.

“I won’t ask for more than what’s on you.” No. 7 squints at Gary, raking his eyes across every pocket on his person. “That’s roughly ten quid, by my guess. A bit cheap for a watch of this quality, but it’ll do.”

“You’re insane,” Gary mutters, but hands over his crumpled notes and a smattering of coins anyway.

“I never claim to be otherwise,” No. 7 says as he hands over the watch. “It has been a pleasure doing business with you. If you ever meet a man who can’t tear his eyes away from that watch, you might want to talk to him a bit.”

Gary tries to grab his arm to demand answers, but No. 7 isn’t a Kingsman agent for nothing, and he grins as he dodges out of the way.

Oh, Galahad is going to absolutely skin him alive when he shows up without the watch, he thinks gleefully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, this isn't going to be a fic about No. 7. He won't feature as heavily in other chapters--this was pretty much the most significant appearance I've planned for him. Plot-wise, his main function was mostly to link this fic and A Different Place and Time by transferring ownership of Harry's watch to Eggsy.
> 
> 27/07/2017: Is it me or did my writing style get exponentially harder to digest after chapter 5? Rereading this fic, it felt like chapters 6 and 7 were written by a completely different person whose defining characteristic is abruptness. :/


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Harry finally meets Eggsy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise update! It didn't take 2 years after all. Turns out, all I needed was another Kingsman movie to galvanise me into action. No promises for the next update, though.

Despite No. 7’s promise to deliver Harry’s watch to him, he never sees it again. Clearly, Harry has overestimated No. 7’s trustworthiness, which is not something he thought he’d ever say. After the mistake that was choosing No. 7 over airmail (which, while horribly unreliable, at least has a known success rate, low as it may be), Harry confronted No. 7 about his missing watch. No. 7 told him that he’d passed it to Gary. When Harry asked, embarrassingly eagerly, if Gary was well, No. 7 said that Gary had the kind of forgettable face that made it hard to remember anything about him.

Harry thinks he can probably be forgiven for unleashing the full force of Merlin’s newly dubbed Rainmaker umbrellas on No. 7, who dodges three projectiles in quick succession before succumbing to a fourth. When called in to deal with the aftermath, Merlin takes one look at the overseas agent, whistles, and asks if No. 7 killed Mr. Pickle. Harry replies with a grunt and a wave of his now-watchless wrist.

(He is careful to only show Merlin the back. His words are _his_ , no one else’s. While they may have formed a ridiculous sort of tentative friendship through deliberate mutual aggravation, Harry would sooner trust Merlin with his life than with the knowledge of his words. Besides, it’s not like Merlin ever offered to show Harry _his_ words, so why should Harry?)

An hour later, Harry leaves Merlin’s office equipped with a shiny gold watch considerably more deadly than the one No. 7 misplaced.

Merlin claims that Kingsman’s standard issue watch is far more useful than the one Gary got for him anyway, but Harry doesn’t _want_ useful. Merlin may be a genius by most standards, but it does doesn’t translate well into empathy. Despite Merlin’s best efforts, he words do little to fill the yawning emptiness that has opened up inside Harry now that he’s lost the only thing that connected him to Gary. It’s been so long. Harry fears that he’d start forgetting what Gary looks like if the only proof he has left of his existence is his own memories.

\---

After the first ten times or so that Harry freezes when he looks down and sees an unfamiliar watch, he stops looking at all.

Merlin despairs for the loss of his punctuality. He swiftly rectifies that by installing a time-tracking function in the spectacles, but by then Harry has already gotten into the habit of running late just to annoy him.

\---

When they meet again, it’s both completely momentous and utterly dull.

Over the years, Harry has had time to consider what it would be like to see Gary again after nearly thirty years. Some days, he thinks it’d happen the way it first did—in the heat of battle, blood rushing through his ears and every muscle poised for action. Other days, he wonders if it’d start with gazes sliding past on a crowded street, only to snap to each other again when recognition sparks in the split second afterwards. In bed, alone, Harry dreams of Gary slipping into his house and settling between his sheets like he’s always been there, like he never left.

Of course, he doesn’t neglect the awful possibility that Gary has forgotten about him altogether. After all, thirty years is a long time to be in love with somebody you never see, what more somebody you never see and who isn’t your soulmate.

Right now, though, it is late morning, almost noon, and there are barely any clouds overhead. It’s too early for dreams. Harry leans up against the wall of Holborn Police Station and he doesn’t have to wait long before somebody in an awful snapback walks out of the station.

“Eggsy. Would you like a lift home?”

There is too much sun and, even after so many years, Harry still sees Gary beside him when the sun is high. Except, today, it’s not a figment of his imagination.

Harry’s first thought when Gary “Eggsy” Unwin turns around is ‘I’ve had three cups of tea—why am I still seeing things.’ His second thought is a complex set of interconnected rationalisations that leaves him uncertain that the world makes any sense at all, because Gary is here, in front of him, as young as the day he left.

“Who are you?”

Even in his worst nightmares, Harry never once imagined that Gary wouldn’t know him.

\---

Unless he’s woefully inept at information gathering, Harry knows that Eggsy doesn’t have any other family aside from his mother and baby sister. There is no Uncle Gary, no cousin Gary. Just Eggsy and his father Lee. Or, well, it _was_ until Harry went and got Lee—

There is no point in dredging up the past. It only serves to make it harder for Harry to meet Eggsy’s eyes. Doubly so, if Eggsy turns out to be Gary and not some uncanny doppelganger. What sort of fucked up reality is this? Why did Lee have to be Gary’s father? Why did Harry have to go and get his _soulmate’s_ father killed? Scratch that. Even if Gary wasn’t his soulmate, Harry has loved Gary long and hard enough that it doesn’t matter—the point is that he’s the reason why Gary didn’t have a father growing up.

The Guinness goes down more easily than it should.

The words that goad Eggsy into agreeing to undergo the same trials that lost him his father, too, come more easily than they should.

But Harry can’t help it. He knows that Eggsy can and will be good as a Kingsman agent. There’s so much more that Eggsy could be doing with his life than bumming it out in the estates, and he owes it to Lee to give his son the same chance. Except, this time, Harry vows to be more vigilant—nobody else is dying on his watch.

More privately, he admits that he is selfish, that he wants to see Gary again in his Kingsman suit and shiny Oxfords, looking at Harry like he means the world to him.

\---

It is only when they’re on their way to U.K. HQ that Harry allows himself to properly look at him.

Eggsy has the watch. _His_ watch.

Harry doesn’t know what to think so he settles for staring at it, taking in the well-loved leather straps and carefully polished face, while he makes conversation with Eggsy about his baby sister. He’s not sure if it’s relief from seeing the watch again or confusion also from seeing the watch again, but he knows that if he stops talking, he might do something incredibly unbecoming. Like cry.

So he doesn’t stop talking. It helps that Eggsy is a fascinating conversationalist, just like Gary was.

\---

All Eggsy needed, really, was the right motivation. He was an overachiever in a world where the sky was far too small for him to spread his wings. All Harry had to do was show him that the sea didn’t end at the horizon—it went on, and on, a vaster expanse than Eggsy ever imagined it could be.

Then Harry sits back, a martini in one hand, because from now on Eggsy is on his own. At least he knows that Merlin will be fair.

He brings the glass up to his mouth and rests it there on his lips, eyes trained on live feed before him where the new recruits are currently stuffing showerheads into toilets. Nobody listens to Eggsy, and nobody moves to grab a showerhead for him. He doesn’t look like he belongs among the rest of the group, nor in Kingsman. He just looks young, too frustrated with himself and too angry at the world.

There’s nothing in Eggsy that speaks of the assured young man Harry met on a sun-drenched rooftop. All Harry sees is somebody who wants to prove himself but doesn’t know how, whose posture is all wrong for a suit. But, god, those _eyes_. They look at the world the same way Gary’s did.

Harry doesn’t know how it happened but he’s found Gary before he became a Kingsman, before bespoke suits and salty sun-kissed skin and lessons in making martinis. Honestly, the why’s and how’s have been thrown in the backburner because he can’t deal with them when he’s already dealing (using copious amounts of expensive liquor and cheap beer) with the more immediate _what the fuck_. He considers the idea that he’s gone absolutely barking mad after one too many near-fatal missions, and then swiftly discards it. Even his dubiously sane mind wouldn’t do this to him only for him to wake and find himself alone again.

He tips the martini back and swallows as he considers another idea.

Eggsy has a soulmate who isn’t here. Harry doesn’t know if it’s because they haven’t met yet or if they have and Eggsy’s been turned down. It doesn’t matter—what matters is that his soulmate isn’t here. But _Harry_ _is_. He is old, and he’s been cheated by this whole soulmate business, and there’s a good chance that Eggsy won’t want him when he’s clearly going to be knocking on death’s door far sooner than Eggsy, but that doesn’t mean that Harry can’t spend time with him and be there for him in other capacities.

Something inside him thrills at the prospect of getting to know who Gary was before he became the person Harry fell in love with—knowledge that he was denied thirty years ago. He can’t help but be mildly awed by the fact that _he_ is part of Gary’s elusive past, that he will have a hand in making Gary who he is—was—will be.

Something else clenches and mourns the loss of what they used to have. Will Gary be back? Harry isn’t going to approach Eggsy—he won’t, not someone half his age who has never known him like Gary did. Eggsy will one day know him, of course, unless Harry has managed to dream up their entire relationship, but even then _Harry_ isn’t ready to let himself fall all over again for this younger version of Gary. He’s spent far too long imagining how Gary would age, how they’d grow old together, to know what to do when faced with Eggsy.

Maybe Eggsy isn’t even Gary at all. Maybe Gary is still out there, doing whatever he’s doing, waiting for the right time to come back to him.

Maybe he hasn’t lost the Gary who loves him.

(A part of him that is larger than he cares to admit worries if Gary still loves him. It has been nearly thirty years, after all. Maybe his soulmate wants him back now. If he does, Harry won’t stand in the way of Gary’s happiness. Maybe that’s why Harry hasn’t seen him at all, all this time. Maybe Harry’s playing a waiting game that won’t ever end.)

\---

As luck would have it, villains don’t have the decency to wait until Kingsman selection trials are over before knocking Harry out.

Harry wakes with a face-full of beard and a plain card sitting on his bedside table.

‘I heard about your proposal. I’m going to miss watching you mope about our HQ.’

It is unsigned, but Harry knows who it’s from. Although he has half a mind to send an armed grenade over, he likes No. 0 and No. 1 well enough not to cause more trouble for them. He’ll just send it directly to No. 7’s house instead.

\---

“You leavin’ already?” Eggsy asks Harry while he’s on his way out to have dinner at Valentine’s. “You’ve only just woken up.” Eggsy’s pug pants at his feet and Harry stoops to scratch behind one of J.B.’s ears. The dog grins widely, tongue lolling, and Harry stands back up after giving him a final pat.

Harry turns a smile on Eggsy. Eggsy is coming along nicely, growing into his abilities at a rate that far outstrips some of the other candidates. It won’t be long before he’s proper Kingsman material. “I am, unfortunately,” Harry tells him. “But I’m glad you caught me before I left. I’d like to congratulate you on making it to the final three. I saw Merlin earlier and he was impressed by how close you and Roxy came to becoming human jam.”

“I barely believe I’m still in one piece. I was _this close_ to breaking my leg.”

“But you didn’t. And even if you did, you’d still be in the running. We’d just have to postpone things until your leg heals.”

“Thank fuck that didn’t happen. I don’t think I can take much more of Charlie taking the piss out of me every minute.”

“On the record, I urge you to get along with your fellow candidate. Off the record, Mr. Hesketh is an incredibly poor judge of character, and you should endeavour to take what he says with a healthy handful of salt.”

Eggsy grins at that. It makes his entire face light up like the sun and leaves Harry yearning for the identical smile on Gary’s.

\---

Harry is barely back from Valentine’s—where he’s sure he’s cocked up enough that Valentine knows without a shadow of a doubt that _Mr. De Vere_ is just a cover, and he’ll deal with that, but later, not now—when Eggsy ambushes him. Rather, Eggsy _tries_ to ambush him, but Harry twists out of the way before he even realises that it’s Eggsy and not an infiltrator.

“I was gonna ask if you was all right, but that was bloody brilliant, Harry,” Eggsy says excitedly even though Harry is bending his arm in an uncomfortable position behind his back. “You didn’t get hurt or nothing while you was out, yeah?”

Harry releases him, a smile tugging at his own mouth. “I assure you that Merlin would have dragged me off to medical first thing after I returned if I’d been wounded. I’m perfectly fine, but your concern is much appreciated.”

“That’s good. I wanted to talk to you. We got our next task today,” Eggsy says, the way he always did after Merlin briefs them on a test before Harry went and decided to slip into a coma. “It’s different from anything we’ve ever done.”

Oh. Is it today? Merlin did say something about needing Harry back before midnight, although the conversation had quickly turned into longwinded nagging about being more careful and less aggressive when approaching targets. Harry has always been slightly fond of this particular loyalty test, although that might have to do with the mere fact that it has nothing to do with threatening innocent dogs.

“I’m on my way to get coffee. Care to join me?” Harry offers.

“Yeah, sure. It’s not like I’ve got better places to be anyway. Roxy’s trying to get some sleep before we head out later tonight.”

The communal dining hall is never entirely empty, given the odd hours that people working for Kingsman tend to keep, but it is never really crowded either. Right now they’re the only two people there save for Lamorak who came in for a quick shot of espresso while muttering a string of curses about ‘fucking handlers,’ and not in the pleasant way either. He waves distractedly at both Harry and Eggsy before taking off with renewed mania in his eyes. Perhaps Harry should speak with Merlin about limiting Lamorak’s caffeine ration.

“It’s a honeypot,” Eggsy finally says, holding out a photo of Lady Sophie Montague-Herring in front of Harry and frowning. They’re seated across from each other at a table in the corner. “I don’t really want to do it.”

“A gentleman always does what he must. We don’t always have a choice, Eggsy,” Harry tells him gently, pushing the photo so that it’s face-down on the table. He eyes Eggsy’s wrist but doesn’t say a thing about it. The honeypot isn’t the point of this test anyway. “Don’t think too hard about it.”

Eggsy snorts. “But I thought that’s what we was supposed to do. Be all smart and dapper.”

“Yes, but your heart will get in the way if you let yourself get invested. It’s all part of the job, Eggsy. There is no need to take it too seriously.”

“Got a lot of experience with that, don’t you?” Eggsy grumbles, eyeing Harry with a look that could probably curdle fresh milk.

“If it is any consolation, I wasn’t always like this. I, too, had to learn.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“You just might,” Harry says, smiling. There is a scorching rooftop calling their name in a country far east of them. “Now, go on and get dressed. Merlin won’t be waiting with the cab forever.”

“All right, all right. I know when I’m not wanted,” Eggsy laughs. “See you around, yeah? Don’t get yourself knocked out again. Next time you do I might just let J.B. wake you up with his rank breath.”

Harry huffs. “That was _one_ time, Eggsy.”

“That’s one time that _I_ know of. Merlin probably has a whole file.”

Harry raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t propose you so that you can give me cheek.”

Eggsy shrugs. “I’m a package deal, bruv. You either get all of me, or you get none at all.”

Yes, Harry is beginning to see that. The lines between Eggsy and Gary have already started to blur and it worries him that, one day, he might only see Gary and lose sight of Eggsy all together. Eggsy deserves so much better than somebody who can only see him for who he will be and not who he is.

But for now, Harry watches Eggsy go. Right now he’s Eggsy’s mentor and nothing will stand in his way of being there for him right after the test, regardless of whether he passes or not.

(He knows that Eggsy will pass. Of course he’ll pass. Gary couldn’t be a Kingsman if Eggsy doesn’t. But, irrespective of what Harry knows about Gary, Harry also knows enough about Eggsy to be able to confidently say the same. Eggsy will pass on his own merit, regardless of whether he becomes Gary.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoiler: Harry falls in love again next chapter. Whenever the next chapter comes out.


End file.
